


Lumberjacks Don't Dance

by ArmsofWar



Series: He's a Lumberjack [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballroom Dancing, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, Internalized Misogyny, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmsofWar/pseuds/ArmsofWar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That fic where Dean's a rugged lumberjack who secretly wants to cha cha, Castiel is hiding a secret under his ugly sweater, and no one really appreciates Gabriel's efforts. Sequel to The Lumber Jack-Off Spectacular.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lumberjacks Don't Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deeleybopper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deeleybopper/gifts).



> Well, here's another installment of the Lumberjack Series. It's a lot of fluff, a ton of crack, and a megaton of cha cha cha. This is for deeleybopper (read her fics because they're amaziballs). Thank you guys for reading it and for the lovely feedback on the previous installment. 
> 
> I would also like to say that there is no Boston School of Ballroom in Hoboken, that I've never taught a ballroom dance class (many of them are private lessons but this is based off of some of my bigger class experiences), and that while I was writing this story I literally could only think of spruce trees as a type of tree. So, I'm sorry.

Castiel Novak hated waking up late.

He woke up every morning at 7:30 a.m., even if he didn’t have work that day. He’d throw on his gym clothes, grab his keys, head to the fitness center down the road and run on the treadmill until his shirt was drenched with sweat and his lungs ached. Then, he would scurry back to his apartment, take a shower, and eat breakfast while watching the news.

When he woke up late, it messed with his schedule and that was just unacceptable.

It was a Monday.

He woke up to silence and knew something was wrong.

“ Eurgh,” he groaned as he tried to sit up. The tequila shots from last night, however ,immediately shot him back to the bed.

After a few more tries, Castiel finally managed to wrangle himself out of the covers and turn his bleary gaze to his alarm clock.

10:37 a.m.

“ God damn it.” 

Castiel heaved himself out of bed and slunk into the shower. The burst of hot water helped soothe his sore back and aching head.

There was no time for a work out today. Castiel had a coffee date with Charlie in about a half hour, then a long night of work. He rinsed off and shaved his always damnably semi-visible stubble off his chin and cheeks before simply staring at the mirror.

“ You, sir,” he muttered to his reflection, “are a hot mess.” 

By the time he finished with his morning ablutions, he was going to be late for coffee.

He ruffled through his clean laundry and found a pair of work pants. However, there was only one clean shirt left in his drawers.

“ Double damn.” 

Charlie brought this particular shirt over a day or two after the lumberjack show—the Lumber Jack-Off Spectacular—she had dragged him to and forced him to endure. Well, forced was maybe a bit strong. Castiel admitted, even if only in the quiet of his studio apartment, that he _ may  _ have enjoyed the lumberjack show—maybe even a bit too much. He thought of wet jeans and sturdy arms and freckles and shook his head violently. 

When she had brought the shirt over, she handed it to him with a smirk.

“ Gabe thought you’d like this,” Charlie had said with a grin.

It was a thin black t-shirt with shimmery blue letters that read “I [heart] Lumberjacks.” The heart was made to look like two hand-axes crossing each other and glittered more boldly than the rest of the text. 

With a helpless groan, Castiel pulled the t-shirt on before promptly covering it with a sweater and heading out the door.

  
  
 _That same day_

The Winchesters were enjoying one of their seldom days off from the show.

“ Dean, what are you watching?” 

Dean immediately slammed his laptop closed, and turned to face his now very suspicious brother. He leaned over his laptop, trying to look casual.

“ Um, nothin’,” Dean said, clearing his throat. 

Sam’s sassy-ass expression told Dean he definitely thought that it  _ was _ something, and that he knew  _ exactly  _ what that something was. He crossed his arms like some cross old woman (or Bobby on any given Tuesday).

“ Dean, are you watching—”

“ No!” 

“— _ Dancing with the Stars _ Youtube clips?” 

Dean laughed a bit too loudly and way too abruptly. “What? What—no! What are you even—thats—what a stupid—dumb—.”

“ Dean.” 

Dean brushed a finger over his laptop, biting his lip.

Sam huffed out a laugh. “You know, we’ve talked about this.”

“ I know.”

“ And it’s okay to do it every so often and everything,” 

Dean turned away from his brother, waving an arm while still hovering over his laptop. “I know—I know!”

“ But when you spend a whole day in a hotel watching  _ Dancing with the Stars  _ Youtube clips,”

“ Sammy—,” 

“— and crying.” 

“ I thought we promised to never speak of that again,” Dean grumbled, crossing his arms. 

Sam put his hands on his hips, then pointed to the offending computer. “Yeah, Dean, but you’re sitting here acting guilty and you know it’s just a slippery slope!”

“ I know, Sammy! Jesus!” Dean shot out of his chair and agitatedly grabbed his coat. 

“ I just want to know why you’re watching them now,” Sam said, patiently and with a shrug. “It seems random, is all.” 

Dean huffed, pulling on his coat and glaring at the floor. He shoved his fists in his pockets and muttered under his breath, stubbing the toe of his boot into the floor.

“ What?” Sam asked. 

“ Your wedding!” Dean shouted, arms shooting in the air. He waved them around momentarily in defeat. 

“ What about it?” 

Dean rolled his eyes.

“ Well, I’m the best man,” Dean said, slowly bringing his hands back down. “And I’m supposed to be the  _ best _ best man ever, but—I mean, I’ve never,” he sighed and waved at the computer, “you know! And I wanna look cool and stuff, man. You know, at the reception and everything. So, yeah.” 

It was then that Sam saw the notepad.

“ Oh god,” Sam said, grabbing the notebook before Dean even realized what his brother had found.

He flipped open the notebook. “Oh, damn it, Dean,” he laughed, “you’re so fucking precious.”

“ Shut up! Give it back!” Dean said, leaping across the room to grab his notebook, but unfortunately he was saddled with a moose for a brother, whose hand clutching Dean's notebook brushed the ceiling with ease. 

“ You took notes?” Sam said, laughing. Seeing how frantic his brother was becoming, the taller Winchester's face softened, “Dean, why don’t you take ballroom dancing classes?” 

Dean stopped hopping and stared at his brother like he’d actually grown antlers.

“ What? No way!” 

“ Why not? Sam asked. “I don’t know why you’ve never taken a class in the first place, since you’re so obsessed with it.” 

“ I am not obsessed! You make it sound like I’m a girl or somethin’.” Dean shifted uncomfortably. “What if, I dunno. What if I suck at it?” 

Sam sighed. “You won’t know ‘til you try, Dean.” Dean winced at the cliche. “Well, I mean, if Buzz Aldrin can do it—.”

Dean laughed. “Hack!” he barked.

Sam blinked. “Dean, you’re talking about the man who landed on the moon.” Dean shrugged.

“ Second, Sammy. Buzz Aldrin was the second one to land on the moon. And I can assure you Neil Armstrong would have never done to the foxtrot what Aldrin did.” 

Sam waved his arms as if to clear the air. “Just think about it, okay?” Sam said with a shake of his head. “Anyway, Gabe wanted to get drinks in a little bit, you down? I figured we could do some training before we headed over.”

“ Really? Drinks?” Dean asked. “It’s only 1 p.m.” 

Sam shrugged and Dean sighed, gesturing for his brother to lead the way.

  
  


Gabriel Angelo was a very talented MC and, as Dean eventually learned along the way, a good friend.

That didn’t mean the man didn’t annoy the ever-loving crap out of him.

The cast and crew of LJOS all frequented a local dive about fifteen minutes outside of Martell’s Stadium. It was a place that one of the lighting ops found about a week into the run of the show. 

“ Whaddya want?” Denise, their usual bartender, asked.

“ Two Coors,” Gabe said, leaning against the bar and sticking up two fingers. Rolling his eyes, he tipped his thumb at Dean. “And a bottle full of milk for the baby over here.” 

Dean growled and quickly said, “Don’t mind my friend.” He then asked, instead, for a iced tea.

“ I’ll put the milk on ice, then,” Denise drawled with a shrug before she started getting their drinks. 

“ The Jersey charm is really somethin’,” Dean muttered. 

“ Buddy,” Gabe said, grabbing a stool and leaning back, “You should be worried if someone  _ is  _ charming in Jersey.” 

The three of them grabbed their drinks and headed to a table. They talked about the weather, the Giants, Dean’s car and anything but work.

On the second round of drinks, Sam elbowed Gabe. “Hey, listen to this, Dean wants to take ballroom dancing lessons.”

Dean glared at his brother over his iced tea. “Sammy, you’re a dead man.”

“ What?” Sammy bleated, “It’s not like your love for the salsa is foreign to us.” 

“ Really?” Gabe said, drily, “I always saw you more as a waltz kind of guy.” 

Dean squinted at Gabe. “Waltz? Really?”

“ Yeah, slow and easy.” 

Rolling his eyes, Dean flipped Gabe off. 

Gabe, however, he seemed to be taking the issue seriously. He leveled a curious look at Dean then brought his drink to his lips.

Smacking his lips, Gabe said, “If you’re really looking for classes, I know a place.”

Sam and Dean gawked at him.

“ Guys, I went to a fuckin’ art school. Like  _ the _ fucking art school. You think I won’t know a couple ballroom dancing schools?”

Gabe pulled out a card and handed it to Dean. “Here, this card gets you a free trial class.”

Dean glared at Gabe, and his brother for good measure, but quietly put the card in his wallet.

Sammy started up a new conversation and soon they were tossing peanut shells into each other’s empty glasses.

On their way out the door, Gabriel wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders, clasping them tightly and leaning in to whisper in his ear.

“ When you call, ask to work with Novak,” Gabe murmured. 

“ Novak?” Dean asked. “Why?” 

“ He’s a buddy of mine,” Gabe said with a shrug, “and I think you’d like him.” 

“ I should probably stay away from him, then,” Dean replied with a grin.

Gabriel laughed. “Yeah, maybe.” He let go of Dean and stuck his hands in his pockets. “He does have great hands.”

Dean slowed down. “What?”  
  
“And an ass that could cut diamonds,” Gabe added.  
  
Dean huffed, forcing a laugh. “Why would I care about that?”

Gabe shrugged. “Because you’re essentially a wood-chopping Chippendale without a drinking problem, you don’t do drugs, you never bring women home and you don’t go to church.”

“ So?” Dean asked.

“ You’re an artist,” Gabe said. “You’ve got to be hiding from something.” 

“ I’m a lumberjack,” Dean said. “I ain’t an artist.” 

“ Sure, Dean-o,” Gabe said. Dean didn’t know whether to be angry or worried that Gabe didn’t sound like he was teasing. He sounded sad. 

“ Don’t patronize me,” Dean hissed. He shoved past Gabe and caught up to Sammy, gently fingering his wallet—thinking of the business card within.   
  
  


“ Hello, you’ve called the Boston School of Ballroom.” 

“ Oh,” Dean said, staring fiercely at the now folded and creased business card. “Um, just for the record, you are in Jersey, right?” 

“ Yep, right in Hoboken,” the girl on the other end said. She sounded like she was chewing gum. 

“ But you’re called Boston School of Ballroom?” 

“ Mhmmm,” she replied with a subsequent ‘pop.’ “Our director has a special place in his heart for 70s classic rock.” 

“ Oh, uh, don’t we all?” Dean laughed, uncomfortably. 

“ Can I help you, sir?” 

Dean mentioned the business card and, with a deep breath, asked for a free trial as he rubbed the card between his fingers, scrubbing away what little ink remained untarnished.

“ Sure, I can put you with Jess on Thursday,” the woman said.

“ Uh, well,” Dean said, coughing. “My friend told me I should ask for Novak? Mr. Novak?” 

“ Cas?” the receptionist replied, perking up at the name. “Well, sir, he’s usually the advanced level instructor. He only teaches intro on Mondays.” 

Well shit, Dean thought. That was today.

“ If you want, I can schedule you for next week?” 

A whole week? He’d chicken out by then, he was sure.

Maybe he should just forget this whole thing. He knew a couple steps, enough that he wouldn’t embarrass anybody on the dance floor. And, of course, he knew things like the cha-cha slide and the cupid shuffle. He should be fine, right?

“Chicken shit,” he muttered.  
  
“What was that, sir?”  
  
Dean shook his head and bolstered his courage again. This wasn’t about the wedding, or not just about the wedding. Sam was right, what was he so scared of? He was a lumberjack for pete’s sake. If anyone laughed at him, he could just chuck them like a pile of plywood.  
  
“Is it too late to sign up for today?”  
  


 

Google Maps said that the Boston Ballroom School of Dance was a 15 minute drive from Dean’s apartment.

Google was either a fucking liar or entirely too optimistic.

Once he found parking, he sat in his car and stared in the rearview mirror. His hands were sweaty and his jaw was clenched so tightly that it ached all the way to his shoulders.

“ Come on,” he grunted at his reflection. “You’ve climbed fifty foot spruce trees. You can handle a dance class.” 

He clenched his hands around the steering wheel before pushing away from it and getting out of the car.

With no idea what to throw on for this class, he went to his brother—who continued to snicker until Dean threatened dismemberment—to borrow some clothes. Finally, Sam handed him a pair of gym shorts and a tank top.

“ I don’t know man,” Dean said, staring at his lower half. “I feel like these don’t help contain much. And they’re huge on me.” 

“ Not my fault you’re a midget,” Sam shot back. 

“ Considering you’re the height of a totem pole, I think you might have a skewed perspective on normal people sizes,” Dean barked, pulling off the shorts and throwing them at Sam’s head. 

Dean kept the tank top but, instead, wore his oldest pair of jeans. They were soft enough to have some give, but also helped him feel a little less exposed.

But even a pair of the tightest jeans wouldn’t help him feel any less vulnerable as he walked up to the studio and walked inside.

 

The studio was warm as he stepped through the door, and smelled like apples and cinnamon.

“ Hey,” Dean said, walking up to the front desk where a pretty red-haired woman sat. “I’m here for my lesson?” 

She looked up and smiled brightly. “Oh right! Hello! Mr. Winchester, right?” Dean nodded. “I’m Anna. Why don't you hang up your coat on the coat rack? Let’s get this paperwork filled out and then we can get you inside!” 

Dean did as he was told, checked his coat and filled out the solitary trial sheet. He handed it back to Anna who cheerfully took it, handing Dean a sticker with his name on it.  
  
“ Do I need to wear this?” Dean asked, glancing around. 

Anna laughed, good-naturedly. “You’re not the only one wearing a name tag, Mr. Winchester,” she assured him. “The name tag makes it easier for Mr. Novak to memorize your name, and for you to learn the names of your classmates.”

“ Ah, yeah,” Dean said, half-grimacing as he carefully stuck the sticker on his shirt.

“ Let’s go inside, then!” Anna said and walked around her desk. Together, the two of them approached a room labeled “Studio 1.” 

When they went inside, Dean was confronted with a room full of children.

“ Uh,” Dean said, stepping back. 

Anna laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. Winchester. Adults will show up soon. There are still ten minutes until class.” She assured him that if he needed anything else to get her at the front desk and promptly abandoned him to the room of small people.

Dean turned to look at the children and saw them staring back at him with wide eyes.

“ What's your name?” one of the little girls with fiery red hair and a tiara asked. Dean gulped, stepping back further. 

“ Hey there,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see a man, probably a decade older than himself, walking towards him. A woman followed shortly after, both wearing name tags—”Rufus” and “Ellen."

Dean sighed in overwhelming relief.  “ Hey,” he said, plastering his most charming, lumberjack smile he could muster on his face. He held out his hand, “Dean Winchester.” 

“ Glad to see you here,” Rufus said after their introductions.“I was nervous we somehow walked into a ‘Tango for Tots’ class or something.” He glanced over Dean's shoulder at the children who, when seeing the adults talking to each other, immediately lost interest in the massive, muscular lumberjack. 

“ You here for a trial class?” Dean asked.

Ellen stepped forward. “I’ve always wanted to learn,” she said with a grin, elbowing Rufus. “This idiot finally saw the signs and got us a trial month with the school.”

“ You got a broad forcin’ ya into this?” Rufus asked, blocking Ellen’s swat to the back of his head with a practiced grace. 

“ Uh, no,” Dean said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“ You mean...you chose this? Voluntarily?” 

“ Shut up, Rufus. Not every man is a culture-less swine like you,” Ellen said. “I think it’s sweet.” 

“ Brother’s wedding!” Dean bleated. He cleared his throat. “It’s in a couple weeks. Thought I’d pick up some moves…” he added belatedly, “for the ladies.” 

“ See? Told ya! It’s always for a woman!” Rufus hollared with a grin.

Dean just slapped on his guiltiest grin and shrugged.

_You’re always hiding from something._

More adults walked into the room. They came in gradually—mostly in pairs, but there were some lone wolves like Dean. They didn't look nearly as terrified as Dean felt, so he tried to blend in and act cool—which would have been much easier if it wasn't so warm in the studio.

At 6:27, a pack of adults came waltzing (not literally) into the classroom and amongst them was a man with the nicest hair and the ugliest sweater Dean had ever seen.

The man was the epicenter of the group, who tossed smiles and gesticulations like they were for sale. Yet, despite the wild gestures and horrible angora catastrophe, nothing could distract Dean from the fact that he was licking his suddenly parched lips and he was probably, no definitely, staring.

“ Yeah, always for a lady, my ass,” Ellen said, snapping Dean out of his sudden drool-fest. 

“ Is that Mr. Novak?” Dean asked, finally tearing his eyes away.

Ellen nodded. “Yeah, he’s the instructor. Rufus and I saw him at a dance competition in Manhattan. He’s why we started here.”

Seemed like everyone was asking for Mr. Novak to teach them how to dance. Dean didn’t know if the flutter in his stomach was terror or excitement. 

When Dean turned to face the man who now stood near the front of the studio, he was suddenly pinned by electric eyes that were blue as a cloudless, midwest sky. The dance instructor seemed not only surprised, but practically aghast to see Dean there. Dean's eyes darted around the rest of the classroom and noticed that no one else was wearing jeans and silently cursed himself for being too self-conscious for Sam’s massive gym shorts. Now he was drawing the ire of the most popular dance teacher at the school. 

Feeling daring, despite the trembling quiver of his heartbeat, Dean glanced back up. Novak was still staring at him, but also nodding to Anna. She, too, was watching Dean but then also pointing to another couple of people in the room.

Then, Mr. Novak clapped his hands together, drawing attention fully to the front of the studio. He stood in front of the large mirrors which allowed anyone who cared to look a lovely preview of his ass—clad in a pair of tight, black stretchy pants.

Dean tried to stop caring, mostly so he could pay attention to the instructions. But if wishes grew on trees…

A sharp elbow jammed into his side and he barely masked his yelp.

“ Do you know him or something?” Ellen whispered.

Dean minutely shook his head.  
  
“Why’s he keep staring over here then?” 

Dean looked up and saw Mr. Novak point off to another instructor—Meg—who would be working more closely with the children.  
  
But then he saw what Ellen was talking about. The blue-eyed, stretchy-pants-wearing wonder-god that was apparently their teacher would look directly at him and Dean could feel his face heat up. Granted, Dean was used to being ogled—his career thrived off of it. Somehow, though, Mr. Novak’s glances each dug at Dean, stinging like a lightening bolt straight to his chest and warming his belly.

“ Maybe he’s mad about my jeans?” Dean replied, weakly.

“ Hmm,” Ellen replied, but said no more. It didn’t matter because Mr. Novak’s eyes landed on him again and landed not on his jeans or his chest but directly bored themselves into Dean’s eyes.

Dean—6’ 3” and 210 pounds— had never felt so small as he did every time the water blue eyes of his ballroom dancing instructor skirted by him. Like clockwork, the man would glance at him, pierce Dean through, then he’d tug at the corner of his sweater and look away.

Finally, the instructor clapped his hands a second time. “So let’s pair up, and get started!” Mr. Novak said.

Shit. He hadn’t listened to a lick of anything dance instructor said. Dean turned to Ellen and Rufus for help, but they were already paired up and laughing with each other. 

Dean felt a tender pang of want. Unwanted thoughts—dreams—of quiet laughter and soft beds heated by another person. Cool nights but warm hands that clutched to each other like lifelines.

“ You damn idiot,” Ellen laughed, playfully smacking Rufus on the hand.

Someone tapped Dean's shoulder.

“ Do you have a partner?” 

Dean turned to see Mr. Novak was standing there, and Dean stepped back, surprised by being so suddenly close to him.

Dean glanced around and saw that everyone, even the legions of children, were paired up. Everyone except him, of course.

“ Uh,” Dean said, glancing around in dumb hope. “Doesn’t look like it.” He glanced at the clock. Five minutes in and he already screwed this whole thing up. “Does that mean I’m disqualified or something?”

A couple of the adults tittered causing an embarrassed flush to race up his neck.  
  
Even Mr. Novak, who until this point had only looked at him like one would an apparition or a wild bear, was smiling—almost like he was pleasantly surprised that Dean was such a complete idiot. Dean preferred the smile instantly over the man’s piercing stares, even if it was at his own pitiful expense.  
  
“I think we’ll keep you here a little longer,” Mr. Novak said over a chorus of giggles—loud to Dean’s ears, but good natured. 

“ Uh, okay,” Dean said, wincing. Smooth criminal, Winchester.

Mr. Novak took pity on him. “I’ll be your partner for today,” he said. A couple people whistled. “Behave!” he said, wagging his finger at the older students but grinning just as wickedly.

“ So, for your first class, we are going to learn the cha cha. Are you familiar with it?” A chorus of ‘Nos’ rose up, although Dean remained silent—unsure whether or not saying that he memorized the dances from his bouts of Youtube watching meant that he knew jack shit. 

“ Well, then, let’s get to it!” 

They started by facing the mirrors, and Mr. Novak took the class through the basic steps.

Even with a dance so simple, Mr. Novak moved with a grace that Dean had watched many times on his small laptop screen. Dean couldn’t think of a time he had ever seen someone move so elegantly and standing so close to him. 

His body was fluid, each twist alluring and each step deliberate. His arms and hands moved easily and automatically with each “1-2-3!” As Dean mirrored his every movement, he was given a perfect line of sight to Mr. Novak’s arms—sturdy and strong, but also lithe and flexible.

The perfection of the man’s pert rear end was something Dean now forcibly spent little time thinking about or looking at for too long, or else he was sure he would trip over his own feet.

Surprisingly enough, Dean found he kept up with the moves pretty well. He silently thanked Lisa, his one and only ever girlfriend, for dragging him to her Zumba classes twice a week for five months of their seven month relationship.

“ Now, it’s time to face your partners,” Mr. Novak said. “For today, since I am partnered with Mr. Winchester, here, I will be in the female role. So, ladies, please follow me. Men, when we get to your more difficult parts, I’ll make sure to go through it with you, don’t worry.” 

With that, Castiel’s hands—soft and hot and just a little bit sweaty— grasped Dean’s.

“ Gentlemen, you will step forward with your left foot first, women you will step back. Mr. Winchester and I will demonstrate.” 

He’d what?

The instructor tugged gently on Dean’s hands, propelling his left foot to step forward. With a gulp, Dean allowed Castiel to guide them through the simple step. Soon, other couples joined them. 

Dean could feel his own palms starting to sweat, and tried desperately not to think of how his sweat and Mr. Novak’s were mingling together and how much he wanted to feel the sweat that was dabbling the other man’s temples and beginning a sensuous slide down his neck.

“ Gentlemen, you should now be guiding the dance with your hands,” Castiel said. “You are the leaders for this dance, for now at least. It goes where you let it go, so be free to move those feet!”

More quietly, Castiel said, “Would you like to lead? Just push and pull with your hands, gently.”

Dean nodded and bit his lip. Really, there was nothing different about the step itself, but taking control of the dance sent a thrill down his spine. His feet stepped with more confidence and a surge of energy pulsed at his fingertips. Mr. Novak grinned, then looked at the other dancers, giving them notes as they tried to find their groove.

They learned more moves—turning and arm movements, although they rarely clasped anywhere beyond each other’s hands—incorporating the things they did earlier in the class. Finally, Novak separated from Dean long enough to put on the first CD track. The Cuban beat flittered around Dean’s ears and jumped into his skin.

“ Let’s try a little bit a freestyle for the last couple minutes of class, now,” Castiel said. “Let the music carry you!” he shouted over the music, then clapped everyone in.

Dean couldn’t remember a time he felt so free, except maybe when he was chopping down evergreens up near Ketchikan. Like the cold winds of Alaska, the choppy, sensual beat of the music pumped through him.

He felt exhilarated as he gently nudged his partner and himself forwards and backwards. Each spin or side-step was matched easily by his perceptive partner, whose eyes stayed placidly on Dean’s face.

When Dean felt confident enough with his steps, he straightened up to meet his teacher’s open-sea gaze.

The man, as Dean noticed upon earlier glimpses, was beyond handsome. He looked like a movie star, and his teeth flashed like pearls as Dean turned him in upbeat circles. When Dean’s arm would occasionally brush his partner’s side, he could feel warm strength and hard muscle.

Mr. Novak’s cheeks were flushed by their exertion, and possibly due to the still horrendous sweater he was wearing.

“ Aren’t you hot?” Dean asked.

His partner blinked, then shrugged a suddenly devious grin on his face.

“ That’s what they tell me,” he said, winking.

Dean’s mouth flapped open in surprise.

“ N-no! I didn’t mean, I—” Dean tripped as they crossed their legs to step outwards, opposite arms held aloft and free, but Castiel brought him back with a steady pull of his wrist.

“ No need to get so worried, Dean,” he said, still grinning. “I won’t tell anyone.”

If anything, Dean wanted to speak up more, now. He wasn’t flirting, he thought. If he was flirting, you’d definitely know, he thought. Subtlety was not his specialty.

This ballroom dancing instructor made him tongue-tied was all. 

With a final percussive rattle, the track ended and the room broke out in laughter and applause. Even though sweat was dripping down his back and neck and soaked a deep triangle down his chest, Dean could not help the laugh that burst out from deep in his chest. 

“ How are you feeling?” his teacher asked, smile wide and hair wild.

Dean shrugged, attempting to be non-committal, but was betrayed by the continuing bubble of joy that twisted his own lips into a toothy grin.

“ Yeah, good,” Dean said. He wiped his forehead and felt the perspiration cake on his arm, “A little warm,” he added. 

Mr. Novak snorted. He picked up the bottom of his sweater and shook it out, attempting to create airflow. It must have been even more of a challenge in such a stiflingly muggy room.

“ You’re crazy, you know that?” Dean said, gesturing to his teacher’s outfit. The man only shrugged.

“ You might be right.” 

A sudden high-pitched, youthful roar buzzed in the room. Both Dean and the instructor turned to see Meg, Mr. Novak’s assistant, being pulled along by multiple small hands.

“ Mr. Novak! Ms. Meg said that you and her used to compete and dance the cha-cha!” one child accused.

Surprising, Dean glanced at Mr. Novak who was assessing the children and Meg with bemusement.

“ Did she, now?” he asked, lightly.

Meg shrugged. “It was relevant to the conversation at the time,” she said, but Dean could hear the defensive tremor in her voice. She was much younger than Dean and must be at least a decade younger than her teacher. Dean had watched couples with this sort of relationship—that between a student and their mentor—dance in the competitions that he found on Youtube. It wasn’t that uncommon. However, those sort of partnerships meant that the student needed to be twice as good to overcome the gap of skill and experience between them.

Meg must be fantastic.

“ And did you really go to national level?” the same kid asked, squinting one eye and staring at his teacher as if through a magnifying glass. 

“ I said nearly!” Meg piped up. “We  _ nearly  _ went to nationals!”

“ Nationals?” Rufus spoke up. “You must be good, then!”

“Give us a show, huh?” Ellen asked.  
  
A ruckus of hopeful students, young and old, kicked up and coated the muggy studio air with pleas for one little show.

When the noise seemed almost unbearable, Mr. Novak sighed, nodded, and with a pat on his shoulder, urged Dean to join him at the stereo.

“ Press play when I tell you,” the man said, plugging in his iPod and shuffling through his playlists with a defeated, though calm, air. 

Dean nodded. The rest of the class peeled to other parts of the room and parents glanced inside, some slipping into the studio to watch.

Mr. Novak, however, was watching  _ him.  _ Dean glanced up to see a glimpse of something—nervousness? embarrassment?—flit like smoke past his blue eyes. 

“ Don’t take this the wrong way,” Mr. Novak warned.

“ Huh?” Dean replied as Castiel took off his sweater to reveal a shirt that the lumberjack almost instantly recognized. 

“ I heart lumberjacks,” Dean read, jaw slightly agape.

He gaped at the glittery blue text, a shade that caused his instructor’s eyes to sparkle—like the morning sun over a calm ocean tide.

Dean swallowed and realized that the man was, reluctantly, waiting for his response.

But wait.

“ Mr. Novak,” Dean croaked, “You’ve been to my show?” 

Mr. Novak bit his lip. Then he glanced at Dean’s expression and something in it—Dean couldn’t be sure what—seemed to bolster him.

“ Yep, and you winked at me,” Mr. Novak said with a much put upon sigh, “It was a magic moment. Such a tragedy you should forget it.” 

Dean frowned. He winked at a lot of people during his shows. It was kind of his thing. But he thought back and he remembered tousled black hair and wide eyes and thought, maybe, he could remember a flush on the man’s cheeks.

He’d winked to ruffle the man’s feathers. It's what he did at most shows, choosing a handsome man to shake up with a sultry glance. Now, Dean stood there and he was the one overwhelmed. He smiled, shakily, in realization. 

“ Saturday morning,” Dean said. “That’s my favorite crowd.” 

Mr. Novak smirked and turned away, “Castiel is fine, by the way.”

Castiel, right, that was his first name. Castiel. Dean mouthed it a couple of times, the unfamiliar name situating itself on his tongue. The man nodded and Dean pressed play.

The song was fast, much faster than the track they’d just danced to, but the guitar plucked a sensuous rhythm to set Meg and Castiel off.

As Dean guessed, Meg was very good. Her hips kept in perfect time with the music and her feet were in sync with Castiel’s as they squirmed their upper bodies above their fast moving feet.

Once Dean’s eyes settled on Castiel, however, they refused to drift away. The man’s body moved in ways Dean could hardly ever imagine his own doing. His hips rolled in sensual yet masculine waves and his thin, black t-shirt—slicked to Castiel’s skin with sweat—contorted with every torque and twist of his torso. He could see the man’s prominent leg muscles—from his calves to his quads—shift and glide against each other, gorgeously displayed in the stretchy, moldable fabric. When Castiel turned Meg in quick circles, Dean watched as his arms flexed and contracted in quick, concise pulses that whipped his partner around with blinding yet graceful speed. 

Meg spun quickly and faced away from Castiel, causing their bodies to mold together. They swayed in unison, smoothly snaking around each other while their feet skillfully tangled and untangled with each percussive beat.

Finally, their movements became more pronounced and with a final pull away from each other, the music ended and the room broke out in applause.

Dean felt a little shell-shocked and it took a couple seconds of the next song to blare out over the speakers before he gained enough awareness to turn off the iPod.

Castiel stood surrounded by his awed students, and Dean lay his iPod gently on top of the stereo. The dancer smiled, his beautiful pearly-white teeth gleaming under the dull florescent studio lights as he nodded and thanked his audience for their compliments.

Dean realized that he was staring. Again. In fact, this whole time, he had been acting like a complete girl. Sure, Castiel Novak was a good looking man, and a phenomenal dancer, but Dean needed to pick his tongue off of the floor and get reacquainted with reality.

No, Gabe, he wasn’t hiding from anything, Dean thought. He knew exactly what he was, who he was.

Beyond the lumberjack show, the Saturday Morning rush, hanging with his friends and watching  _ Dancing with the Stars _ Youtube clips, Dean Winchester was a man who know how to cut down trees. He was a lumberjack, he wasn’t a cha cha dancer or anything else. What he needed to do was leave—it must be in the musk of the studio, laced with a drug that went into normal, regular people’s heads and made them dream of dance floors and writhing bodies. 

As he headed out of the studio, he bumped into Ellen and Rufus.

“ So, will we see you back here?” Ellen asked. 

“ Uh, I don’t know,” Dean said, shoving his hands in his pockets and staring at his sneakers.

“ What? Don’t be a moron!” Rufus barked. “You’re actually good at this shit. Don’t run away like a—” Ellen stepped on Rufus’s foot, causing him to yelp and leave off what he was going to say in favor of glaring at Ellen and rubbing his offended extremity.

Dean blinked, stunned.

“ What the irate, sweaty man’s trying to say,” Ellen said, with surprising calmness, “Is that we hope to see you back.” 

Dean nodded and watched them go, bickering the whole way.

“ It must be nice,” a low, gravelly voice said behind him. Castiel stood inside the door frame, arms crossed, watching the strange couple leave.

“ Seems a little painful,” Dean replied, “ Love usually is,” Castiel murmured. “right?” 

Dean glanced at him, but Castiel’s eyes weren’t watching Rufus and Ellen. They were darting around Dean’s face, one eyebrow raised. The rest of his body remained relaxed as he leaned against the door jamb, the “I [Heart] Lumberjack” print shimmering from the twinkling fairy lights that bedecked the lobby.“ Maybe,” Dean said, his hands clenched in his pockets but his eyes stayed glued on Castiel. A few students brushed past the instructor, drawing the man out of the door to stand directly beside Dean. 

“ So, Mr. Winchester, your bio from the...the uh,” he cleared his throat, “ _ lumberjack show _ says that ballroom dancing is one of your hobbies,” Castiel said. Dean blinked. His bio? Oh...oh, shit. “How long have you been taking classes?”

Dean laughed, half-heartedly. “Oh,” he said, uncomfortably, “uh, this was my first one, actually.” Castiel’s brows furrowed and Dean reluctantly added, “It was my brother’s fault. I don’t really like talking about myself, and I hate writing, so I didn’t feel like filling it out. He offered to fill it in for me.”

“ Oh,” Castiel said, sounding disappointed. Even the amused glimmer in his eyes that had seemed so constant throughout the class seemed to dim. 

Dean cleared his throat. “I—I don’t get a lot of free time with the show and everything,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And with my jobs before this one, there really wasn’t time for anything but work. I really don’t have hobbies. Just cutting down trees and getting paid, you know, the working grind.”

“ Right, of course,” Castiel said. 

Dean gritted his teeth, already feeling the heat of embarrassment stain his neck and cheeks as he pressed forward. He urged himself to say, “So, my brother put ballroom dancing cause I like watching dance shows on Youtube.” 

Castiel blinked, surprised. “Oh.”

Dean laughed and rolled his eyes. He was gonna kill Sammy. And Gabe. If they just left him alone, he wouldn’t have gone to a stupid dance class, wouldn’t have drooled over a guy (a guy!), and could have kept his damn girly habits to himself.

Castiel must think he was a complete dumb ass.

Dean was about to wave off and hurry out the door when Cas stopped him.

“ Have you ever seen a dance show live?” Castiel asked. “Like a ballet?” 

Dean frowned. “Is that anything like a dance recital?” 

Cas blanched. “No, God no! Wait here, don’t move.”

Castiel scurried away and Dean saw him ruffling through something that looked suspiciously like a purse before pulling out a small rectangular piece of paper. 

“ What are you doing this Thursday at 8?” Castiel asked. 

“ Nothin’,” Dean said, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, but adding, “the shows are over at 6:30.” 

“ Great!” Castiel said, shoving the paper at him. “Then you are coming with me and we are seeing Prokofiev’s  _ Romeo and Juliet  _ at the American Rep.”

“ Uh, isn’t that Shakespeare?” Dean asked, glancing down at the ticket in his hands.

“ Well, yes, but it is also an amazing ballet. It’s what got me into dancing in the first place, and—” Castiel seemed to notice Dean’s overwhelmed expression and calmed down, almost shyly adding, “and I think you’ll enjoy it.” 

Dean’s lips twisted, unsure. He liked dancing, sure, like Tango and Salsa and even a good Waltz. But ballet?

“ Come on,” Castiel said, slugging him gently in the shoulder. “It’s free, and I promise I’m good company,” Castiel said. 

Dean squinted at the ticket. “Why do you have two of these anyway?” he asked.

Castiel, with a put upon sigh, said, “I usually go see shows with my friend Charlie, but she made me mad and I’d rather go with someone who  _ appreciates _ the arts, frankly.” 

Dean decided to not ask any more questions down that avenue. Seemed like a dangerous way to go. Slowly, Dean nodded and tucked the ticket into his wallet.

“Don’t blame me if I hate it, though,” Dean warned, sharply.  
  
Castiel waved the thought away like it was no more than an irritating gnat. “I’m not worried,” he said as he turned around and walked inside the studio, following the students for his next class who began to mosey in.

Dean tried not to panic as he walked through the lobby.

Okay, okay, Dean thought. So the guy invited him to a ballet. He was a dancer! In fact, he was his dance instructor—at least for that one class, anyway. It didn’t mean anything.

“ It’s not a date, it’s not a date, it’s not a date,” he muttered as he neared the front desk, grabbing his coat while the ticket silently burned a metaphorical whole through his wallet and seeped warm anxiety—and maybe excitement—into his skin. 

Hell, Castiel probably wanted to convince Dean to take more classes by taking him to the ballet! It was his job, after all.

It was definitely not a date.

Before he reached the front desk, however, Dean felt a hand settle firmly on his shoulders.

“ I forgot,” Castiel said, as Dean turned once more to face him. He looked determined and much to Dean’s surprise, landed a quick kiss on his cheek. 

Dean could feel the kiss, the hot and tender lips, even as Castiel straightened up away from him and stuffed a card in his pocket. His toes even tingled.

“ Here’s my phone number,” he murmured. He started to walk away. Dean found himself speaking almost without his volition.

“ Dean,” he said. Castiel stopped, swiveling to face him. “You can call me Dean.” 

Castiel, for no better word, beamed at that. “Dean,” he said with a nod, his gravelly voice reaching somewhere deep inside Dean and pulling out a blush that ran up his spine.

Then, Castiel turned and hurried back to the studio.

Dean glanced at Anna on his way out the door and saw that, although she was looking pointedly away from him, she couldn’t seem to help her lips as they curved into a badly hidden smile.

“ All right,” he muttered. “Maybe it is a date.” 

He got into his car and started the engine. In the reflection of his car’s lights against the cement wall he parked in front of, he pulled Cas’s phone number from out of his pocket and stared at it. His heartbeat pumped fiercely in his ears and his stomach danced as a small army of butterflies filled his heart and brain with nervous excitement.

In the rear-view mirror, Dean saw his flushed cheeks and neck, and he was fairly certain that it was not from his dance class.

“ Oh, Dean Winchester,” he sighed, putting on his seat belt and pulling into reverse. “You are totally  _ screwed,  _ dude _.”  _


End file.
